‘I kept feeling that Bapu would wake up any minute’
Devadas Mohandas Gandhi (19001957) was the fourth and the youngest son of Mohandas Karamchand and Kasturba Gandhi. He was born in South Africa, and returned to India with his parents to join the freedom movement. Devadas Gandhi joined the in 1937 as managing editor, and held the position till his death in 1957. Tara Gandhi Bhattacharjee, the eldest of four children of Devadas and Lakshmi Rajagopalachari (the daughter of C Rajagopalachari), spoke about her father’s stint in her grandparents, and the changing face of Delhi. Bhattacharjee has dedicated her life to Gandhi Smriti and Darshan Samiti, and is also the author of a memoir, Yes, of course. Standing on the terrace of the apartment, we would see men climb up the poles on the roadside and light the street lamps. In the summers, men with huge skin bags would sprinkle water on the road. There was less chaos, very thin traffic. My father loved food and music. So we would often eat out; and one of his favourite places was Old Delhi Railway Station canteen that had great food.
He also helped set up Rikhi Ram Musical company.
He was extremely hardworking and meticulous. He was not just the editor of but also looked after [the Hindi edition set up in 1936] and the overseas edition. He would begin his day at 11.30am with the editorial meeting, and then stay at the office till the paper went to press. I remember that and coffee (which was not widely available then) would be served in those meetings.
My father did not have any formal education, but his English was good, and he was particular about handwriting and spelling. He would test young journalists on their composition skills and difficult English spellings. Even though he never trained as a journalist, he knew spot news was important. So he put up a wooden, manual news ticker outside the newspaper building in Connaught Circus; every two hours the news would be changed. I think he excelled as an editor because of the Mahatma’s [foundational] education, his hard work, and the unstinted support from the Birla family.
One of the first women journalists he hired was Promila Kalhan, and my father often said she wrote “clean copies”, meaning they could go straight to press. He was very particular about editorials, and wrote letters to his editors. Once I wanted to contribute to a rival paper’s very popular junior section. When I asked for his permission, he said no, because the paper was not just a rival paper, but also not patriotic. He despised yellow journalism. My father was very fond of K Shankar Pillai, the political cartoonist. But once he scrapped a cartoon because my father felt that the expressions would not go down well with readers. When the riots broke out in 1947-48, my father would stay late to ensure safety of the Muslim workers in his office. did not want any interference from the government in his daily work.
The Birlas looked at him as someone who stood for Gandhian journalism. He was given a free hand. While my father was very close to GD Birla, he kept a professional distance. He was always surrounded by people, and I would look for time to meet him alone. While everyone knows about Gandhi the national leader, not many people are aware that he was also a thorough family man. Even though he himself was very busy all the time, he would joke with me that my father was busier than him!
I once asked him whether I should do social work. He said: “Get an education first, your parents have big dreams for you. Roam the world, and then do what you have to do once you are back in India.” In a way, that’s what happened in my life. He had a great sense of humour, too. In the limited time he allotted to us to meet him, he would put aside his spinning wheel, and always ask: “Do you practise letter writing? You must learn Tamil from your mother.” Bapu-ji would often sleep only after I pressed his feet.
During the time I spent with him, Bapu-ji saw through my immaturity, and his efforts to educate me increased. He did not talk about philosophy, meditation, or the freedom struggle. Instead, he spoke about behaviour, etiquette, games, entertainment, language learning, handwriting, and creative education. There would be no fixed time for his sermons. Sometimes, he would instruct with a smile. Sometimes in jest, and at other times, he would be dead serious.
I was about to sit down with my books that day, when the telephone rang. A voice on the other end said: “Mahatma Gandhi has been shot dead.” I put the phone down, thinking it was a hoax call, but it rang again. It was the same news again. God knows how my parents heard the news and reached Birla House. I don’t remember how I went to Birla House. But for the first and only time, I loudly proclaimed that I was MKG’S granddaughter so that I could enter the house. Mother was in shock. And my father said to me: “Taru, pay your respects to Bapu-ji.” But I kept feeling that Bapu-ji would wake up any minute.